


Where Will I be, this Time Tomorrow

by hinderants (smoken)



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Set in 1991 but also the late 60s/the 70s, Slow Burn, kinda??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-08-21 02:59:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16568330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoken/pseuds/hinderants
Summary: “Rog, come on.” Brian looks at the Magazine.  They’ve used a picture from Freddie’s 39th, shirtless and in his generalissimo tassels from Living on my Own.  He gets where Roger’s coming from.Or: Brian and Roger help each other through the grief of Freddie’s death.  Sort of.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me praying Bohemian Rhapsody sparks some good Queen fics on here, figured I’d attempt to get the ball rolling. 
> 
> Chapters are probably gonna be hella short cause I have a habit of getting bored easily. I’ll try to update often to compensate :)
> 
> I'd also just like to say that while the characters in this story have the same names as the members of Queen, they are not Queen in any other sense. This is all fiction. All of it.
> 
> Title from Doing All Right by Queen

When Brian pulled open the door to his flat, an unwelcome rush of UV and heat impaling his otherwise dimly lit, icy corridor, he didn’t expect Roger on his doorstep. “Brian. Look at this shite.” his voice harsh and _sharp_ , foreign. Rather, perhaps, unfamiliar; something he hadn’t heard in at least six months.

Roger held up some tabloid paper but Brian was rather more invested in Roger’s pale skin. Pale skin that formed a gradient of lilac and Browns beneath his eyes. Sunken eyes that looked red and glassy, like he’d been crying, but Brian wouldn’t point that out. Roger’s hair was a complete disarray of wiry blonde that’s more golden and gleaned with oil at his scalp. He’s got on one of his old jackets though, actually, leopard print and unbuttoned down to his knees. His jeans are old as well, faded and it doesn’t match. Brian curses himself because he knows he looks much the same.

He means to ask Roger what’s wrong but he’s already shoved past him and started ranting. “Have you been reading the papers? It’s fucking bollocks, Brian,” he doesn’t take a breath, “They’re saying Freddie brought it on himself.” He’s slammed the magazine on the junk table by the door as he looks at Brian with rage in his eyes. Brian almost gets defensive, as if he’s the one who’s written it.

“Rog, come on.” Brian looks at the Magazine. They’ve used a picture from Freddie’s 39th, shirtless and in his generalissimo tassels from Living on my Own. He gets where Roger’s coming from.

“They might as bloody well say he deserved to die,” and Roger is much louder now, makes Brian wince.

Roger’s shoulders drop and so does his head. Brian steps towards him, gives him a soft look even though he can’t see. “I’m sorry,” and he heaves in a breath, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Brian, I-“

Brian puts his palm against Roger’s shoulder, cups it. “Fred’s really gone.” His shoulders shake when he says it and Brian’s gut clenches. Pulls him with the hand on his shoulder, let’s Roger’s face fall into his neck, breath hot and eyes wet. Roger sobs, shoulders shaking, and Brian’s acutely aware this is probably the first time he’s done so in two weeks. His jacket is scratchy where Brian rubs his palm over it, where his other arm squeezes around Roger’s waist. Brian can’t see the room anymore, only hexagons of light and watery shapes. He closes his eyes, rests his cheek atop Rogers’s head, and wet rolls down his chin.


	2. Chapter 2

“Fuck, Rog.” Brian doesn’t recognise his own voice. Something’s caught in his throat because Roger’s wearing that stupid smirk, self-satisfied. It’s disgusting, really.

“You good, Bri?” Roger asks, cocky, wiping the corner of his mouth with his middle finger. Brian’s about to snark back but he watches Roger inspect his finger, sees the glean of milky white there. He looks straight into Brian’s eyes as he pulls it into his mouth, wraps his lips around his fingertip and sucks down. His cheeks are hollow, eyes half-lidded and shining. He pulls his finger out with a pop, innocent, filthy. Brian can’t form a sentence.

Roger laughs, pushes up from between Brian’s legs. Brian lifts his hand to put his fingers in Roger’s mess of long blonde. Roger thumps on top of him, jeans scratching against his cock. Brian pushes away his head when he moves closer. “Go wash your mouth, sod,” he tells him.

Roger rolls off of him, falls with a sigh onto the bed beside Brian. “I’ve just sucked your cock, the least you could do is give me a kiss.” Brian rolls his eyes. Roger doesn’t make any advances towards the bathroom though. Brian tucks himself away, does up his fly. Roger limply reaches out his hand when Brian lifts himself off of Roger’s striped blankets. He whines but he’s got his eyes closed and his head back.

When Brian walks out into the living room there’s dirty dishes littered over the couch. A collecting pile of food wrappers on the coffee table, a few pairs of Roger’s underwear on the floor. Brian shakes his head but it’s fond. There’s an empty glass by the sink that looks clean enough.

Roger’s the same as Brian left him when he walks back into the bedroom. “Here, princess,” Brian holds out the glass he’s filled with tap water.

Roger opens one eye at a time, sits up to take the water. “So where’s Tim got us booked into tonight?” Then tips the glass horizontal, empty in two gulps. Brian sits beside him, falls back, arms up, sideways across the sheets—too soft from use.

“Probably some dive,” he provides, and Roger’s button up is crisp cotton, crushes when he yanks on the end of it. He goes easy, head on Brian’s bicep. Roger’s hair sticks almost up his nose when he curls his arm, gets Roger’s head under his chin. Roger snorts.

“Too right.” Brian closes his eyes, and fuck Tim if they’re late to the gig.


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s been quite distressing,” and Brian watches as his chest rises with a breath, his eyes glance toward his fingers. “To read some of the reports in the press.”

Roger’s so soft-spoken about it; stark in juxtaposition with the hot rage he was encompassed by the day prior. But he fidgets, fingers twitch as he rubs at his forehead, scratches his nose. Brian can tell he’s pissed.

Brian’s already forgotten the name of the interviewer—it’s unimportant. It’s fairly apparent all he cares for is the fact that he’s gotten a Queen interview a week after Freddie’s Mercury’s died.

“Yeah that definitely makes us very angry,” Brian responds to some lewd description of Freddie’s sex life. And it does. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon yesterday reading the tabloids Roger had brought him. They all followed some common theme of recklessness, drug consumption and sex-fiendishness. It was ill-matched with their memory of Freddie, before he had gotten insupressively ill; private, shy.

The interviewer thanks them, gives them his condolences.

“You haven’t heard from John?” Roger asks him. There’s sounds of squeaking wheels when someone wheels a rack of grey suits past them. Some low murmur from technicians into headsets, loud voice of whoever the other guest was ringing from the green room television. But Roger’s voice is soft, rough around the edges, tired; much like Roger himself.

Brian shakes his head, “called him three times yesterday, didn’t pick up.” Roger’s brows knit, lips thin. Brian knows he’s worried, is so himself, but John’s his own man. They’ve got enough to worry about without adding that in. Let John have his time, let him be private.

Roger covers his face for a moment, presses his fingers into his eyes. There’s people still moving about them, one man with some plate of cheeses and a woman clicking her pen. It irritates Brian in a way it shouldn’t, and he has to take a breath, deep. He shuts his eyes as well, for a moment at most. Roger won’t look at him, but Brian can see his eyes, glassy, knows why.

Brian reaches out and Roger’s coat is thick on his arm when he taps it, lingers there for a beat. “Come on,” he tilts his head toward the exit. Roger smiles, toothless, but goes.


	4. Chapter 4

Brian watches the street in front of them.  The reflection of the lights on the road, screech of brakes around the corner.  He puts the lip of his beer to his mouth and slugs it down.  He wipes away a drip down his chin with the backside of his hand and passes it off to Roger without looking at him.  Roger takes it between two fingers, follows suit.  He nods, tips the bottle towards Brian in gratitude. 

They stay like that for a while.  Seated in the back of the van.  Roger with his back against the side, one leg bent at his side, the other hanging over the edge, an inch from the ground.  Brian’s got his feet planted on the tarmac of the parking lot, leant forward with his elbows on his jeans. He breaths in, deep, and lets it out in a sigh.  Roger blows a quick breath through his nose. 

Roger holds the beer in one hand around the neck, let’s it hang by his leg.  “What now?”  He asks, but it’s pessimistic like he doesn’t think anything happens now.  He goes and becomes a dentist. 

“Guess we find a new singer,” Brian supplies and reaches out his hand for the bottle.  Roger snorts, hands over the beer.

“New bass too,” and his fingers are wet with condensation when he reaches for another bottle.  Clangs it against the others, sitting in the box beside him.

“Let’s just start our own band.” Roger lets himself laugh at that.  He looks up the street, brings the bottle to his lips, downs almost half.  Brian watches him shake his head, smile on his face before he turns, lets him see his eyes.  Brian grins back at him, “May and Taylor, two man show.” 

“Oh, we’d sell out Wembley,” Roger holds out his arms, says it at the sky.  He leans forward to take another gulp of his beer, spills nearly half over his shoe, and the van’s cold against his shoulder where he stops himself falling forward.  Brian laughs at him.  Roger waves him arms again, grandeur.  “Think of all the women, Brian.” And he all but shouts it.

Brian flicks out an arm, Roger’s chest is hard when he hits him across it.  “You and your bloody groupies.” Brian shakes his head like he’s hurt, but his cheeks are still stiff, he’s still grinning.  “You’ll forget about me one of these days.”

Roger catches his arm, yanks hard on it.  Roger’s lap is warm when he falls half across it, but his beer is icey when it spills in his hair, flattens out his curls, smothered.  Roger’s got his bicep under his chin, flexing his arm around Brian’s head.  “I could never,” and Roger’s shoulders shake as Brian sticks out his tongue, gags despite Roger’s loose grip, he’s almost giggling.  “You’re more than some groupie, Bri.”

Brian knows he’s probably speaking in reference to their friendship, tries to tell himself.  But he thinks he finds a sincerity in what Roger’s said that catches him off guard.  It makes him stop laughing. He turns over so his head’s in Roger’s lap and stares up at the van’s roof.  Roger doesn’t seem to notice, is still laughing, soft, beer halfway to his mouth.

They’ve never talked about what they are; what’s between them. _What’s a blowie between friends_ , Roger had said once. Brian just goes with that. 

Roger sticks his fingers in Brian’s hair, doesn’t seem to mind the beer that’s in it.  He scratches at his scalp and it’s so nice, Brian closes his eyes. There’s faintly a siren somewhere, but the pubs pretty much cleared out by now, much less chatter around them.  It’s quiet enough that Brian can hear Roger humming. Cracklin’ Rose, Neil Diamond.  Brian sucks in a breath and lets himself enjoy it for a moment.  Roger’s skinny legs under his neck, the denim there warm like the beer’s masked him from the cold.  Brian tucks his hands away in his coat because it hasn’t had the same effect on him.  Roger’s nails are short, his fingers soft in his hair.  Brian almost loses himself in it. 

Roger stops his humming.  He puts his palm against the crown of Brian’s head, the other cups his chin.  Brian opens his eyes as Roger’s lips smack against his forehead, leaves it wet.  Brian slaps his cheek for it, but Roger’s skin is so soft, pink where he’s flushed.  Brian lingers there a beat too long and blames it on the alcohol.  “Take me home, Bri,” Roger demands him like he hasn’t noticed—or perhaps  _because_ he’s noticed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is where I start taking Artistic Liberties. I'm very aware the description of Brian and Roger's relationships in this chapter is not 100% accurate for the time period, but honestly their relationships were kinda confusing in 1991. They also, frankly, aren't relevant to the fic.

The curtains, typically off-white, are stained yellow by the morning sun.  It’s warm, _hot_ , and it fills the room, seeps into the walls and heats the air.  There’s nothing to disturb the silence, save for the rhythmic click of the ceiling fan, a quiet whir from some appliance.  It’s deafening, leaves a shrill ring in the room.  A teapot sits on the coffee table, untouched, full, accompanied by upside down cups on china saucers.  Yellow ochre arm chairs face Brian’s bookshelf, ghosted by dust.  Astronomy textbooks orderly sorted to contrast the mess of sheet music on the shelf below.  The room is too big, wooden floors light, stretching for miles between where they’re seated and the opposite wall.

Brian stares ahead of him, but he isn’t looking at anything.  He’s spacey but too aware of Roger in the seat beside him.  The heat hits his shoulders where it floods through the windows behind him; draws sweat from his skin for his coat to soak up.  He sits in it, though, stares ahead; listens to the rub of Roger’s fingers as he rolls is finger over his thumb—repeatedly.  Brian’s own hands are heavy in his lap, fingers too long and threaded together.  His elbows force a bend in the cushion of his arm rests.  He’ll sigh every ten or so minutes, doesn’t realise he’s doing it.  Perhaps, subconsciously, in an effort to elicit some expression from Roger.

Roger with his eyes to the bookshelf—same unseeing stare.  Roger who has his hands at the end of the chair’s arms, finger rubbing on his left hand.  His eyebrows appear as if attempting to meet, furrowed.  The sunlight hits him from the back and streams through his hair, un-styled and over his forehead, as a golden halo.  It’s an image Brian had noted, but refused to catalogue, refused to analyse. 

Roger had shown up an hour ago.  Brian ushered him in without a word, fetched them tea, steered Roger towards the sitting room.  He had walked past the kitchen, originally, and Brian knows Roger is privy to the location of his bedroom, but he refuses to let himself acknowledge he was heading in that direction.  It’s another thing he won’t analyse—not now.  Brian asked how he was doing and Roger had shrugged, didn’t speak any further. 

Brian’s spared more than a thought for Roger’s wife at home, his kid.  Brian knows Roger and Dom weren’t on good terms, but Christ.  Roger’s been at Brian’s house every day the past week, mostly just _there_ , rarely wants to speak.  Hence why Brian flinches when he hears a low, “Brian where do you keep your whiskey?”

He has to blink himself from his trance, slowly turns his head from astrophysics to Roger’s face, his golden halo.  Roger’s still staring forward.  “Roger it’s 10am.”  But Roger’s on his feet, boots heavy on the wooden floors and Brian can only watch him walk to the kitchen.  There’s periodic claps of wooden cupboards being swung closed and the pull of drawers opening.  Eventually, Brian hears the tell-tale clack of glass bottles and feels an urge to go after him.   

When Brian rounds the corner, Roger has his back to him, pouring a glass of Chivas.  He doesn’t seem to bother adding water, sips it straight.  Brian steps into the kitchen, leans with a hip cocked against the bench, keeps a metre between them.  Roger still won’t look at him, so Brian dips his head, leans forward so they’re eye-level.  His arms sit crossed at his chest.

“Do you think we should talk?”  Brian’s cautious when he says it; it’s clear in his voice, breathy and this-side of stern.  Roger takes a gulp this time, screws his nose up a bit.  He swirls the glass, looks down into the auburn as he speaks.

“About what?”

Brian turns, lets the back of his thighs sit against the bench.  “The fact you’ve been at my place the last five days straight,” and Roger’s eyes fall, look down at his feet.  “That you’re drinking whiskey at ten in the morning.”

Roger looks up at him then, and Brian recognises it’s defensive.  Roger’s eyes are sunken but they’re narrowed, his lips down-turned, just slightly.  “I’m an adult, Brian, I can drink when I want.”  His voice husky but it’s quiet, like rolling thunder.  “I don’t see what we need to talk about,” and that’s been the thing with Roger lately.  He’s been a slow progression of crying on Brian’s shoulder into distant and snappy.  Roger comes to his place, but he won’t speak to him, just drinks his tea—his whiskey now as well—and leaves when Brian puts a palm on his knee, looks at him soft, tells him he’s going to bed.  Brian doubts he goes home, but knows he’ll always be back in the morning.  Drinks his tea, doesn’t speak.

“I’m worried about you, Rog.” And Roger looks up to the roof at that, neck strained and breaths in deep.  Brian notes the flush that’s crawled across his face and how his shoulders lift, stiffen.

“I-“ and he has to take a breath, stutters on it.  “I think I should go,” and he spills a drop of whiskey when he drops the glass against the bench.  Makes haste to leave Brian in the kitchen,

“Roger, wait,” as he paces after him.  Roger’s intent, though, traces back through the sitting room, heated and suffocating.  His shoulder clips where the walls join when he rounds the corner, and Brian watches him yank at the front door, hears the drag of it.  Hears the heavy slam and Roger’s gone.    He’s got no clue where, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always appreciated!!


	6. Chapter 6

There’s a soft glow from the street lights, silver and cold, intrusive of the otherwise blackness.  It’s a blackness that cloaks the room, settles into each corner and fades near the stream of light through the window.  It’s blue though, the walls are a pale blue that’s watery and fragile and Brian can only describe it as a result of the darkness and the streetlight. 

The sheets are blue beneath them, but that’s their colour regardless.  Striped blue sheets Roger’s mum had said he could take with him.  They’re soft and there’s some faux fur that tickles at Brian’s calves. It’s some throw blanket Freddie had given Roger.  Freddie’s who’s been their lead for a little over six months.  Brian’s been grateful for it, he’s talented, they’d known that for a long while, was an easy replacement once Tim was gone.  They clash, on occasion, but Freddie fits well with him and Roger.

Roger’s strewn across the mattress beside him.  That’s all it is, single mattress flat against the thin carpeting, Brian’s own flush with the opposite wall.  He’s pale in the streetlight, his skin expansive and unblemished.  Brian’s raking his eyes over it.  Looks over the blue-black shadows on his torso, outlines the little muscle he’s got beneath the skin there, makes him look bigger than he is.  There’s a tiny pudge at the waistline of his boxer’s, though, and Brian really does have to look elsewhere before he presses his lips against it.

Roger’s lips, swollen where Brian’s bitten and sucked, are parted, millimetre of his front teeth stark from the light of the window.  His hair’s splayed across the pillow, dirty blonde spilling out, half over Brian’s forearm.  Roger has one of his wrists over his eyes, the other limp against the carpet, hanging over his mattress.

Brian wants to touch.  Smooth his hands over Roger’s skin, soft and illuminated, festooned with tiny marks Brian’s priding himself on.  He’s worried though, that he’ll move and Roger will stir, remember he’s there.  Brian’s counted himself lucky Roger’s allowed his presence so long already.  Roger will yawn, stretch his limbs, every night.  Then he plants a kiss to Brian’s cheek, his forehead, sometimes his neck, once both his eyelids, then pointedly return to his own mattress. 

Brian knows, he _knows_ , that he can’t complain.  It’s not how they work, it’s not fair on Roger to ask him for more.  But he also knows that Roger wouldn’t do it if he couldn’t sense Brian’s turmoil.  It could be platonic, friends helping each other through the chill.  Brian thinks back six months to the times he’d stay over Roger’s family home, blonde hair, shorter then, a warm blanket on his bare chest, Roger a grounding weight curled atop him.

But now he’s got to take what he can get.  Now, they live together, and Brian still extends his gratitude to Freddie for the suggestion—albeit silently.  Now, Roger has to make these points, give Brian signs that they’re still just friends who give each other hand jobs.  Brian thinks he doesn’t have to, but then thinks it’s more likely he just doesn’t _want_ him to.

Roger shifts, moves his arm so Brian can watch him turn his head and blink up at him.  He’s bleary-eyed and Brian thinks he must have been asleep after all.  His eyes are blue and they’re dark and it feels like he’s looking into the darkness of the room reflected in his pupils.  He ignores the pull in his gut.

“Bri-“ Roger rasps, it’s quiet, so much so that he almost misses it.  His chest goes a little tight because he knows what Roger’s asking.

“Ten more minutes,” he tells him and in his head it’s pleading, desperate, but it comes out cool like Roger doesn’t have room for input.  Which he doesn’t seem to mind, presses into Brian’s side, nose cold against his ribs.  He’s got an arm snaked around Brian’s waist.

Brian let’s his eyes drift closed, eyelids heavy.  He takes a breath but doesn’t dare to exhale it.  Roger’s body is so warm and the sheets beneath him are so soft and it’s so reminiscent of before. 

He shifts from under Roger’s arm later, pads over to his own mattress, cold and uninviting.  He watches Roger’s chest rise and collapse again until he can’t any longer.


	7. Chapter 7

Roger’s on his doorstep again.  There’s red in the whites of his eyes, half-lidded like he’s drunk—maybe he is.  His grey t-shirt looks too soft, hangs off him beneath his coat.  It mimics the skin at his cheeks and he looks so much older than he had a week ago.  Brian sighs.  He’s seen this sight fifty times by now; Roger in some unruly state, pounding at his door, slapping his hand hard against the wood, but looking soft and apologetic once Brian opens it.  This time it’s four a.m. and the first time he’s seen Roger in a week, not since he’d spilt Brian’s whiskey and fled from his house.  Brian’s picking sleep out of his eyes. 

Roger looks up at him, lips parted, staring right through him and Brian almost has the thought to check behind himself. Roger doesn’t say anything, he’s definitely drunk.  “Roger.” Brian breaths out.  Roger lifts his fingers to his mouth and Brian realises he’s got a cig between them. He takes a drag, cheeks hollowed, and Brian smells the whiskey when he exhales, doesn’t turn to blow the smoke away.  Roger goes easy when he pulls him past the door by his coat.  Brian watches him stumble, messy and drunk, and it pisses him off.  There’s something hot behind his eyes and his fist clenches round Roger’s collar, makes it pull up, brings Roger’s gaze with it.  “Roger-“ and there’s a croak in his throat, he has to falter and clear it out.  He’s slow and punctuated nonetheless, but there’s something foreboding beneath it, “it’s four in the fucking morning,” his voice stern.  Roger stumbles when Brian lets go, has to catch himself with a palm against the plaster.  He still doesn’t say anything, just looks up at Brian, but his face changes. Morphs to something more aware, something more challenging.

Brian takes it as an opportunity to continue, “You know-“ and he has to pause a second.  He has to suck in a breath and hold it in his chest for his next words, “I’m your friend, Rog,” he lets it out, “but Jesus Christ,” Brian watches Roger’s jaw clench but he can’t stop.  He knows he needs to hear it.  “You’ve got a kid at home.”

Roger takes another drag, sucks deep, turns his head away when he blows it out this time. He’s calm when he lifts the cig to Brian’s shoulder, eyes fixed on his collarbones, exposed through the old singlet he’s got on.  The end of it’s orange where Roger presses it into his skin. And it fucking burns.  He pulls his shoulder back, slaps a hand over where he’s been burned.  Roger’s already shoving him back into the wall though.  His hands large splayed across his chest, but the alcohol’s tamed his strength.  The plaster’s still hard when his back hits it.  There’s a rose pink climbing Roger’s neck, up to his cheeks.  He’s swaying in his place, but his eyes stay fixed on Brian’s.

“Don’t fucking talk about my kid.”  Roger’s words mix at the ends.  Brian’s seen Roger’s temper a million times but not for years.  Not since they were kids.  It takes him all the way back. The memories piss him off. 

Roger’s still a breath away from his face and Brian shoves out his arms.  It sends Roger stumbling, he tries to grip at the wall, ends up on his arse.  Brian stands above him, perhaps just to remind Roger how much smaller he’s always been.  He’d relished in that once.

Brian’s collar burns, comes in red hot pulses across his shoulder.  Brian wants to kick him out, wants to raise his voice, scream at him.  He wants to curse him for thinking he could come back like this—come back into his house and use it as refuge against his loveless marriage, against John’s disappearance—against Fred.  And Brian has to sob at that.  It comes up through him and surprises him when his shoulders rack with it.  It floods him suddenly, like something’s overflowed, and dissipates his anger, cripples him in that moment.  It’s the sight of Roger, helpless and with something akin to fear in his eyes, big eyes, overflowing with blue—and perhaps that’s just it.  It makes something inside Brian creak then snap. 

Roger’s still got his arse to the floor but he’s looking up at Brian, lips parted and eyes half-lidded, pupils peering beneath his eyelashes and it’s an expression of bewilderment.  Brian curls in on himself as he sobs, arms across his chest, curls a curtain at the sides of his face.  He can’t look at Roger—Roger who’s shown up on his doorstep and 4 a.m., piss drunk.  Roger who’s burnt his collar with a cigarette.  Roger who he just wants to leave, go home and let his wife sort him out.  But he can’t, it’s dark and it’s early and Brian suspects he wouldn’t go back to his wife if he kicked him out.

Brian leaves him there, back hunched against the wall of his hallway, legs spread before him.  He closes his bedroom door too hard behind him and doesn’t spare a moment to care whether Roger sleeps in the hallway or finds his way to the couch.  He lets the silk of his pillow become stained wet and eventually drifts to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took me a little bit to upload, some last minute uni things came up, hopefully next one will be up faster.

John’s just joined them, and it’s only been a bit over a month but he’s already moved into Freddie’s room, new mattress on the floor there. He’s great, reserved and quiet. Brian respects his intelligence and kind of enjoys watching Freddie observe him, fuss over him and take him beneath his wing. It’s just—Roger really loves John. And Brian isn’t jealous, he isn’t, but he doesn’t quite understand it. He watches them, how Roger employs him for his tirades against the rest of the band, how they share looks and they laugh between themselves in the living room. Brian watches them and he sees Roger and himself reflected back at him, awkward match of quiet, measuring, observant, with reckless and tempered. And Brian thinks they look good together, but tells himself they don’t, that they’d never. Even still, Brian always ends up with Roger beneath him.

He doesn’t think Roger’s noticed it yet, the tumult behind his kisses when John’s just in the room next door. It’s in his head, he knows it is, but what if it’s not. Because he’s not allowed to stop Roger, Roger isn’t _his_ , much as he wants to will it so. It sends something through him that starts beneath his ribs and ends with cramps in his hands.

It isn’t an issue, Brian decides. It’s just something he’s got to get over. John’s a great guy and Brian’s sure he’ll be good for the band.

“You good?” Roger’s lips warm against his ear, voice low and and it’s got a similar warmth, like an edge of laughter. Brian blinks his eyes, once, thrice, and turns his head from John who’s strewn lazily against the armchair. John’s head the only thing against the back rest, chin tucked to his chest and he’s blowing down his T-shirt, hem of it up over his lips.

Roger’s looking at Brian, lips upturned and his eyes are traced with amusement. He’s got his body twisted so both his arms are left of his hips, pressed to Brian’s side, chin almost rested atop his bare shoulder. Brian’s got goosebumps there. “Yeah,” but it’s too breathless to give the word any merit. Roger gives him a funny look. He glances back to John for a moment who’s sitting himself up, and Roger’s eyes linger there as he turns back to Brian, he’s calculating and there’s a question in his gaze. Roger turns his body and it’s pressed against Brian the whole way, draws out sweat from his forehead but it’s natural to lean into it. Roger settles himself with his back against Brian’s side, head just below the curve of his shoulder. His hair’s wiry at the ends and it sits around Brian’s neck. Roger’s got his arms folded in front of him and he’s looking elsewhere but he’s so close and Brian revels in it. It’s comforting and Brian wonders if Roger means it to be, wonders if he’s just figured it out.

“Freddie hurry the fuck up,” Roger’s shouting now but he doesn’t move, stays against Brian. There’s some bang in the kitchen that sounds like Fred’s hit his head and John snickers from the armchair.

“Roger, time is a prerequisite for perfection-“ and it’s Freddie’s slow drawl, sounding otherwise occupied and Brian thinks perhaps he really is concentrated on the tea, pictures him squatting to see that the cups are evenly filled.

“You’re making tea,” Roger’s vociferous as to make his point and it’s right near his ear but Brian barely hears it. It’s Roger’s hand on his thigh, large and hot even through the corduroy of his pants, that makes him zone in and forget their conversation. Brian’s used to the touch, it isn’t a rarity for Roger to have his hands on his thighs; but this in front of John, in front of Freddie if he was to peer over. It seems to Brian somewhat pivotal, like it’s some advancement, but he thinks about John and Roger again and doesn’t doubt that he might do this to John. Platonically, his better judgement would suspect but he’d do it nonetheless. Roger’s still got himself twisted toward the kitchen when Freddie yells back to him.

“If you’re going to do something you should do it right. This is why I make the tea and not you.” he tells him and Brian hears it but his leg’s burning and he’s watching John arrange himself so he’s got his legs over the arm of his chair.

“You’re the only one who complains about my tea,” and then Brian’s leg is ice where it’s bereft of long fingers and a clammy palm. Brian wants to slap himself but then reads into it too far. Roger’s got this air around him lately, it teases Brian, laughs as he bumbles around Roger, tells him you can’t have this, not really. And that’s in Brian’s head too, because he has Roger as his best friend, has him in his bed. He’s got a strong will and he’ll ignore the voice that screams _more_ at him for an eternity if he gets to keep that. He’ll get over it, the thing with John, the heat that Roger sends through him every time he doesn’t touch, doesn’t sleep in his arms. It isn’t a problem, he had decided, six months ago. It isn’t a problem, it’s still just him and Roger, best mates and that’s it, that’s all. It isn’t an issue.


	9. Chapter 9

Brian wakes to the rain. It’s a soft roar from outside, patter of it slapping on the road and sliding off of his roof, making the pools of water jump up below it. He keeps his eyes closed, breaths in and he’s in a rainforest, chirping birds and flowing water, cool and humid. There’s a growl outside and it shakes Brian’s bed, the walls, and he lets out his breath.

He opens his eyes. There’s a stream of light that tints his bedroom pale and grey around the window behind his bed. There’s a chill from the gust blowing aside the silk at the opening there and it makes the room feel wet, leaves a fog around the mirror that’s opposite him. The mirror which reflects the patter of the rain against the windowsill that’s spilling over onto the top of the bed frame. The sight makes Brian sigh and he thinks better than to look at himself. The blankets are sheathed in cold but it’s some barrier against the wind, a better option than Brian having to get up and close the window.

Eyes unfocused and staring to the ceiling, the black splotches there where the rain’s distorted the light, Brian thinks of Roger. He replays everything from last night, picks out a detail and ponders over it until it morphs to something different, replays everything and finds a new detail to pick at. Roger’s frightened face is watery when he gets his mind to place it on the ceiling. Brian puts his fingers on his burn, presses in, just so. It makes him wince, but he does it again, becomes addictive.  
Brian lays there, ignores the niggling tug that’s curious as to whether Roger’s still in his house. Freddie comes to his mind eventually. Freddie who was still around, Freddie who hadn’t left and was only just a twenty-minute drive from him. Brian’s eyes sting and the strain of it makes him dizzy against his pillow. He can’t fathom it. It’s not even Christmas yet and it kills Brian to think it’s going to be worse before it’s better. Twenty minutes isn’t a long drive and Brian digs his nail into the burn at his collar when he thinks of all the times he didn’t bother.

Then he thinks of John, thinks of seeing him, finds he wants that so incredibly much. But John has his wife, has his kids. Brian pointedly keeps his mind on John’s children, save him thinking about his own, about Chrissie, about the pit in his stomach and the pit in his life.

He’s got a headache. The carpet’s soft at his feet, warm, and it’s exactly contrary to how he feels. He sits at the foot of the bed, counts down in his head, refuses to lift himself up at zero, restarts the countdown. The rain’s louder now, deafening, and it distracts him enough to let him reach for the door handle.

Roger’s on the arm chair in the sitting room. It’s where they’d sat the other week. It isn’t so bright this time, the windows are closed and the rain hits them and makes the glass look textured. It’s dark, sunlight clouded over before it can reach the house. Roger’s asleep. He’s curled on his side, cheek against the backrest and his legs are pulled close to him, almost at his chest. His mouth is agape, soft lips parted around some small breath that makes his chest lift rhythmically. He’s got tiny bumps pricking up from his arm where the sleeve of his jacket’s pulled up. Brian thinks to fetch him a blanket but he can’t look away.

Brian wills himself to be enraged, to be hurt and upset at what Roger’s done but it falls short. Much too short. Brian stands in the doorway, leant against the frame and thinks he can’t. Thinks Roger is quite possibly all he’s got left.

He fetches himself some coffee. He listens idly to the grind of the beans and listens attentively to the voice that tells him he’s a coward, that he’s gutless for letting Roger blow like the storm outside, forceful and disruptive, into his life and fuck with his head and make him relive everything he’s worked so desperately to forget.

Brian pulls a blanket from the linen closet on his way back. He drapes it over Roger, careful to avoid letting his fingers trace over him. He looks away, save for him staring, and settles in the chair beside him.

The low growl of thunder outside carries on and Brian starts to count the time between each one. It’s an apt distraction, he notes but then he starts thinking again. He brings the cup to his lips just as something snaps outside. There’s a horrible clap and the room’s an electric blue for the time it takes Brian to worry it’s woken Roger up. When it’s pale grey again, though, Roger is still breathing shallowly beside him. Brian holds his mug, empty, and runs his fingers over the rim of it.

When Roger does wake, it’s with a jerk and an excessive number of blinks. Brian counts them like he’d done with the thunder. Roger pulls in the blanket so it’s rested beneath his chin. He makes a small noise as if to clear his throat and then must suddenly remember where he is. He lifts his eyes, tentative and slow like he’s guilty. Brian meets his gaze. Roger looks ghostly and sick and Brian just stares at him, keeps his eyes steady. Roger’s eyes drift to Brian’s collar and what he’d left there. The room is blue again in the next instant and there’s a crack that’s loud and demanding that comes with the lightning and it perfectly harmonises with Roger when he yells.

“Fuck,” and he throws back his head into the couch like he’s meant to hurt himself with it.

Brian doesn’t let himself react, won’t let Roger have that. He keeps his stare and hopes it’s scrutinising in the least. Roger’s breathing deepens and he shoves a fist into his hair, pulls there. It takes Brian out of his head to watch. It’s how he feels and it’s what’s inside of him but Roger’s embodying it and it’s shamefully satisfying—to see it manifested. Roger shuts his eyes, rubs a hand over his face.

“Brian,” and it’s a thin line, whether it’s Roger’s voice that shakes or if it’s the room that shakes. Brian’s head spins. “I-“ and he knows what Roger’s trying to say but he doesn’t help him, let’s him stumble over the words. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” and he puts his other fist in his hair, pulls. “Holy—fuck, Brian.”

Brian doesn’t say anything but he looks away. Over at the bookshelf, the textbooks, the sheet music. There’s a photo there and it’s flipped on it’s face. It’s them, the band, sometime in 1976. Roger keeps swearing under his breath, head in his hands now. Brian keeps his eyes forward.

“Brian,” and he hadn’t realised Roger was pleading. Brian feels a little numb when he turns his head, spacey and detached. He looks at Roger, softens his face but only by an iota.

Roger looks much the same as he had the night before but his eyes are more focused and his gaze is more attentive. Brian thinks he’d probably not do so well if Roger were to shove him now. He’s tired though, eyes sunken like he’s ten years older. Brian looks over the tiny lines at the corner of Roger’s eyes, wonders if it’s the stress or his age. Brian puts his fingertips to his own eyes, he’s tired too. They’re both so _tired_. Brian just wants it to be over.

“Roger,” and it’s a hint croaky but it’s definitive and really aiming to shut Roger up. It works, and they sit in silence. Brian doesn’t know how they keep ending up here.

The storm fills the quiet and it’s relaxing in a way that isn’t quite enough to relax him. Roger’s got the blanket around himself and he’s tugging at a strand of blonde. It’s short but it’s enough for him to wrap around a finger. Brian keeps tracing his burnt skin but he doesn’t press. There’s cold beneath it, running through him and he’s rather envious of Roger and his blanket. He looks at Roger, meets his eyes but doesn’t give him an emotion,

“Do you want tea?” Brian asks and he doesn’t mean for it to possess the bluntness that it does. Roger nods but it’s minute like he doesn’t really, just means to acknowledge Brian. Roger looks at him with down-turned eyebrows and lips that lift a little towards his nose. Brian gets tea.

The boiling kettle isn’t nearly as soothing as the coffee grinder had been but he is able to hear it better over the drum of rain. He only makes one cup and it’s heavy in his hand, has a heat that’s scarcely tamed by the porcelain. When he gets back to the sitting room Roger’s standing, blanket around his shoulders. Brian blinks at him and he sort of just hovers before Brian’s seat.

He lifts one corner of his lips. “I thought we could share?” and lifts a shoulder, let’s the blanket slip off it.

Brian angles his head so he’s looking through his lashes, eyebrows raised. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Roger’s bottom lip falls and he looks stupid, Brian notes. He looks small and naive, looks like he’s twenty again and it does something to Brian that he decides is only residual. Residual from twenty years ago, when that look would’ve done something to his cock. Brian sits back in his chair, places the tea on the wooden stool between them and watches Roger resign himself to be reseated. Roger keeps looking at him, sends a warmth through the side of his face, and Brian won’t look back at him—like he’s the sun and it’ll burn to do so. Brian thinks perhaps it would, sighs. He doesn’t expect Roger to say anything further for the remainder of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was incredibly difficult for me to write so I really pray I’ve pulled it off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahh so this one ain’t sfw

It’s become an issue. Brian can’t get Roger out of his head. It’s pissing him off.

Every song becomes about Roger. They film the video for Liar and Freddie sings about being a slave, loving till his dying days and Brian thinks it’s perfectly written for him. He’s tried, he has, but it isn’t something he can suppress. It’s something he can’t even pinpoint the manifestation of. Specifically and in depth, he can recall chastising himself for even thinking of it—being something more to Roger. However, the line between his fears and when they became a reality is thin and blurred.

Brian so desperately wants something to blame and so he chooses the world. He’s been snappy and unreasonable. Freddie had roused at him, snarled a harsh _get over yourself_ mixed with a string of obscenities, and John had taken him to a corner of the studio and provided him kind words that so desperately screamed ‘ _I’m here for you but please don’t get me involved’._ It’s such an effort to be stuck between the fact that he _needs_  to end it with Roger but that he also thinks it might kill him.

His vision’s kind of hazy and Brian thinks it really is more reasonable to blame it on his muddled thoughts than the amounts of alcohol he’s consumed. It’s dark just under the window. Roger’s cigs are in a tray on the sill there. There’s sweat over Brian’s forehead and it runs in droplets over his chest. It’s meant to cool him. Hypothalamus telling eccrine glands that he’s too hot or some shit. But there’s a red hot burning in his chest and it’s fierce and molten. Brian’s eyebrows knit and his lips curl over, bottom one forward, scowling. His muscles are tensed and his nails are digging hard into Roger’s skin.

“Bri, fuck-“ Roger’s near breathless, throws back his head. “Too rough,” and it makes Brian thrust hard, knocks it out of him. Brian growls, low and guttural and he doesn’t slow.

Brian relents his grip on one of Roger’s hips. He moves it to the blonde hair that’s tantalising in front of him. His grip is hard and close to Roger’s scalp but he doesn’t pull. Brian let’s his grip follow when Roger’s forehead falls to the mattress.

It’s utterly obscene. Roger’s chest is flush against the sheets but his back is arched so his hips meet Brian’s, ass in the air. His arms are bent at the elbows, one flailed out beside his shoulder. The other’s pulled in close to his side, though, palm against the bed like he has to hold himself there. Roger’s back is glistened with sweat and his hair’s a mess between Brian’s fingers.

Brian thinks of all the women Roger’s been with. How none of them have seen him in this state, cock up his ass, drooling into the sheets. _All of the women Roger’s been with_. He thrusts, sharp. It pushes out a whimper from Roger that’s so small he can tell he’d tried to suppress it. It makes him smirk and he does it again.

Roger’s panting and he turns his head so much as Brian’s hand will allow. He looks up at Brian, eyes half-lidded and mouth propped open. His lips are swollen, bitten and red, slicked with saliva. He’s got a distant look like he’s out of his head a bit. It’s that look that intermingles with the heat of Roger around him that makes him ache with his need.

Brian leans over Roger. His chest presses to Roger’s back and they’re both near drenched with sweat. He lets go of his other hip and slides his arm between Roger and the bed beneath him. Brian lays his fingers across Roger’s shoulder, forearm across his chest, and uses it to yank him up. He pulls him upright so they’re both on their knees, chest flush to Roger’s back. Brian stills his movement for a bit to curl his arm around to Roger’s cock. He tugs it, once, spits in his hand and returns it, tugs again. Brian puts his lips to the side of Roger’s neck, purses lightly but doesn’t kiss. He has to arch his back forward to meet Roger’s height. His hair falls to one side around his face.

Brian can’t keep his rhythm and he’s sloppy with it. He manages to pump Roger as he pushes into him, though. Roger’s got his bottom lip between his teeth, breathing out with every thrust. His head’s tilted back and his eyes are rolling with it. Brian bites down on his neck harder than he intends but he hopes that it’ll stain him there. Hopes Freddie and John will see, hopes Roger’s girls will see.

Precum slicks Brian’s thumb when he swipes it over Roger’s slit. It mixes with his spit and works to slick Roger up. “Brian,” as he tightens his arm across his chest, Roger’s hands coming up to grip his forearm there. “Brian, I’m-“ and Brian quickens his hand before Roger’s shooting milky white over his own stomach.

Brian keeps his hand circled over the head of his cock until it’s dripping with him. Roger goes limp, slumps against Brian. He’s not letting it go like this, though. Brian’s still got to get off and for once it’s what’s most important. Roger hardly bounces when Brian let’s go of him, let’s him fall forward.

His thrusting is erratic now. He knows he’s still hitting Roger’s prostate for how he whimpers with each thrust. Brian burrows his nose in Roger’s hair and his cock deep inside him when he comes.

It leaves him feeling unsatisfied. When he lifts himself off of Roger he’s met with a shove to his shoulder, makes him fall to the mattress. Roger doesn’t spare him a glance, stands up and storms out. The door slams behind him and it reverberates through the room, through Brian and translates into a pang of desolation in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry I swear this has a happy ending


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait!! Been very busy with Christmas and whatnot.
> 
> If you'd like to get updates on when chapters will be posted you can follow me [Here](https://squeaky-deaky.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Or just come say hi!

Roger’s been clingy.  It’s strange and Brian finds it hard to interpret—hates that fact.  They’d sat in the sitting room for as long as it took for the storm to pass.  Until the silence was broken sparsely by thunder until it was only trickling water from the roof, croaking frogs in the pipes outside.  Roger was wrapped so snugly in his blanket by the time Brian felt compelled to turn on a light somewhere in the flat.

Brian had sat in his chair for hours and mulled _.  I thought we could share_.  And, god, Brian wishes he’d just agreed. Then chastises himself for wanting it.  It had been an inch warmer for some time, between when it had stopped raining and when the sun went down.  It thawed him out, insides and all.  Roger had gotten somewhere beneath his skin, where it meets muscle, and twisted a ligament to have Brian falling to his knees before him.  It was so hard to keep himself standing, keep himself reticent and aloof and cold.  But the sun had to strike through his window and melt him into something pliable and weak, a fleeting resolve that wore thin. 

It’s ten degrees outside.  Brian shakes himself for being dramatic. 

Roger had looked so sad the remainder of the day.  Pouting lips and sorry eyes.  Brian wants to comfort him but an equal part says _serves him right._

It was the familiar gnaw along the lining of his stomach, the airiness that made him feel too light on the inside, that finally saw him get up.  His eyes flitted, little squiggles floating in front of them and he’d had to blink away the dizziness.  Roger had snapped his head up, eyebrows a little downturned but something hopeful in his eyes.  Brian sighed, something of a response, and didn’t spare Roger a glance.

Knitted fabric sounded a persistent drag along the floorboards where it hung around Roger’s shoulders and fell in cascades to the floor.  Brian’s feet were bare and cold, and Roger’s padded behind him, one beat slower.  The hallway’s dark and almost too long for him to bother walking down.  Roger had tripped over himself somewhere along his beeline and if Brian had lingered in the doorway of the kitchen to allow him to catch up, well, he’d blame it on his stiff joints. 

They’d sat at the bench, comically panoramic.  Brian’s got a mirror as a splashback and he stares into it, both of them slumped from the waist up, seated in stools with elbows against the counter.  A bowl of cereal had sat between his hands and he crunched on it dry.  There was a bottle of milk next to Roger that was ten days past its expiry.  There was some memory that lied in the sliver of air between their shoulders.  Metal had scraped along the floor when Roger had dragged his stool closer to Brian.

Brian had eaten only half of the cereal before he had nudged the bowl along the bench to rest in front of Roger.  He’d turned his head, slow, until he’d let his eyes trail the rest of the way.  His head was ducked, neck bent, so he had to peer around his hair to look at Roger.  Roger whose lips had twitched, whose eyebrows had curved upwards in the middle, when Brian had smiled at him.  

It only gets worse from there.  Roger had finished off the cereal and haphazardly thrown the bowl into the sink.  Brian watched him from his splashback as Roger fumbled over the kettle, surprised when he bypassed the tea to pull down the coffee grinds from above his head.  He’d looked through five cupboards and Brian couldn’t find the voice to tell him the mugs were in the drawers at his knees. 

There was steam pouring from the top of the tea cup when Roger handed him over the coffee he’d made in it.  In contrast, Roger’s fingers are cool and dry when he let them linger.  Brian knows it was calculated so that he had to touch, Roger had put his own coffee aside to wrap both his hands around the mug to give it to him.  He wouldn’t say anything, but he twisted his arm so that he grabbed the handle of the mug, wouldn’t give Roger what he’d been chasing. 

Roger came to sit beside him, scraped the stool and Brian really is worried he’d left scuffs in the wood.  When he had sat, it was so close that he had just about thought he was aiming for his lap.  Roger’s arm had rested along Brian’s.  His right shoulder an inch lower but sitting in front of and pressed against Brian’s.  Roger looked down at Brian, where he had rested his chin on the heel of his hand, and had looked as if he wanted to speak.  Brian looked at him without turning his head, strained his eyes so much that he could see the left side of his own nose.  His lips had been cracked before Roger ran his tongue out between and along them, he must have decided against saying anything. 

Brian glanced at the clock, hung from the highest part of the ceiling, but didn’t read it.  They’d moved to the living room some while later.  Sat on the brown velvet between the cushions of the couch, Roger’s blanket draped across their laps because he had indeed succeeded at coaxing Brian into sharing.  There had seemed to be some odd air of formality between them because Brian had sat straight against the back rest, knees folded over the edge and feet sitting flat on the carpeting.  He had sighed and leant forward, buried his hands in his hair and his elbows shifted as per the silk of his pants.

Roger had hesitated, he could tell in retrospect, but he’d smoothed a warm hand onto Brian’s thigh.  He’d done it beneath the blanket and Brian had suspected it was a factor that leant him the courage.  Brian looked at him.  Saw him properly for the first time in two days.  Offered up the attention of his whole face, somewhat of his whole being.  An incessant mantra screamed at him, begged him to look away.  It warned him of future regret and fetched memories of hurt and betrayal to play before his eyes.  It was anguishing to ignore, but somehow it was less torturous to give in.  Brian reclined off his knees, leant back enough for his back to ache with it, lifted his elbows from his knees.  He brushed his fingers over Roger’s, slid into the grooves of them and clamped their hands together.

Brian couldn’t look at Roger, desperately told himself it didn’t mean anything.

“Brian,” without looking at him, something timid in his voice.  It didn’t sit right—it wasn’t Roger.  “Would you like some company tonight?  It’s just- I certainly would.”

There was some kind of finality in it that made Brian’s thoughts _swim_.  He’d spent the next ten minutes running through a maze where at every dead end he met some horrid thought of _Roger’s wife, Roger’s son, don’t get attached, for the love of god—say no._ Though, he found the only exit was to allow himself the indulgence. 

It’s warm in his bed.  They’re underneath two duvets and the throw blanket they’d had on the couch.  Brian finds a fleeting comfort in the pillows he’s got at the base of his spine and another that runs up his back.  It’s dark, but the curtains are a woeful opaque that allows the moonlight to bounce off of Roger’s split ends.  Whether it strikes him in a way to illuminate his face, Brian would be unbeknownst to.  His head is a heavy weight against Brian’s chest and he’d had to smooth back his hair to tuck under his chin.  Brian’s got an arm around him where his body’s tucked up beneath it, hand cupped around one shoulder. 

There’s something calm, resigned, in the space around him and it’s comfortable, something Brian regretfully frames as reminiscent.  Brian’s heart is racing, though.  He’s focusing so incredibly hard on ignoring every thought that bellows through his head.  He’s hot under his arms and he’s _sure_ Roger knows exactly how well he’s coping.  He only tucks himself closer to Brian. 

It almost becomes too much, Brian’s about to get up and remove one of the blankets when Roger pushes off his chest.  He rubs at his eyes, pushes in with his index and his thumb.  Brian watches him, lips parted.  Roger rests on his knees, folded beneath him—it makes him look childlike.  His eyes stay at Brian’s chest for a beat, two, before he blinks and lifts his head.  Brian finds his face hard to read in its state but he looks a little knowing, looks a little determined, looks a little sheepish.  Roger keeps his eye contact, slides the hand he’s got rested at his side and places it, firm, on Brian’s chest.  He lays it there, over the centre of his ribcage, four bones there, hard and protruding.  Brian watches him look down at it, then look back, like he’s asking permission.  Though, he doesn’t seem to wait for it.  

Roger’s rising, knees extending.  The hand on his chest slides a fraction higher.  Brian’s heart hasn’t lost its jackrabbit pace, his hands feel much too clammy for the weather.  “Roger-“

But he says the end of it into Roger’s lips.  They’re chapped and cold and they barely move like he’s scared.  Brian’s chin tilts down and retracts towards his neck.  He stays there, though.  He moves against Roger until they’re at it long enough to form a rhythm.  Brian brings up a hand to bury in Roger’s hair.  It’s starkly unfamiliar when he thinks of all the memories of kissing Roger, hair longer and face younger.  The contrast makes his lips feel bruised and he feels an inexplicable ache that he can only call guilt.  It brings him to reality and he suddenly despises himself.

“Roger-“ half against his lips as he pushes back with two palms against Roger’s cheeks.  His eyes look distant before he blinks, looks up at Brian.  He’s still a breath away and his eyebrows knit, looks a little pleading.  He’s hurt.  Brian can’t look.

“Roger—,”  he’s faltering.  “Your wife, your-” he doesn’t finish for the memory of the night before.

Roger breathes in a quick little huff.  He twists his hand where it rests on Brian chest and earns a fistful of fabric.  The action seeps through it, down to the skin and replicates in Brian’s heart.  Brian’s hands warm from the heat emanating from Roger’s face between his palms.  Roger’s scorching a hole in his face with eyes that he knows are pleading.  There’s a fear seated in every inch of Brian that he’ll allow himself to give in with one look.

“It doesn’t,” and his voice is attuned to the desperation in his eyes.  He’s pulling at the fabric in his fist so much that it lifts completely from Brian’s chest.   Brian thinks it might be a lifeline, the pull of it, but he’s not sure which of them it’s for.  “It doesn’t have to be a thing, Brian,”

And Brian knows he isn’t finished, has more to say, but the throb of his heart, the racing _pound_ , fills his ears.

“Brian, I—god.” And it’s with a breath that he’s pushed out.  He lifts a hand so it’s placed over Brian’s at his cheek.  “It doesn’t have to mean anything, just-“ and Brian rips away his hands like someone’s spilt ice down his back.  Roger stumbles from it and Brian almost pushes him further.  He finally meets his eyes and they’re icy and striking.  They meet Brian’s where there’s pools of molten and thick dark smoke, he’s livid. 

“That was the problem Roger,” and Brian can’t help allowing the pound in chest to set the beat of his words, can’t help but let it be an outlet for the pressure bottled inside him.  Roger winces and loosens the grip at his shirt.  “Don’t—” and his voice cracks, lets a bead of a tear leak from it.  “You _know,_ Roger.  You know that was the problem,” he’s gained some momentum off of the fact that it’s the first time they’ve spoken of the past in twenty years.  “You always meant so much to me, _fuck,_ Roger you still do,” and the rest of the tear falls down his cheek.  “It wasn’t ever enough and you _knew_.”

Roger’s sunk back.  The hand that balled in his shirt is down behind Roger’s back, supporting himself so that he’s almost cowering.  “Please, Bri,” and it’s soft but it’s the rough edge of a Rockstar in his forties, it’s the rough edge of _Roger._ Brian almost seeks out comfort in it but it’s too different—it isn’t young bubbly twenty-year-old Roger. 

“It _hurt_ when you left, Roger.  It took years, I had to see you every fucking day but I could never have what I wanted.  It was never a _thing_.”  Brian’s venomous.  There’s some hint of vengeance and it’s years of heartache.  Roger looks like he might cry but Brian feels dry and far from it.  He wipes at the wet remnants of his tear and lets the hot lick of anger strangle him.

“Get out.” And Brian doesn’t want it, wants anything but.  He has to make the statement, though. 

Roger looks beautifully dumbfounded and Brian wants to shove him.  Roger stares up at him and dissolves Brian’s resolve with every second he does it.  It’s numbing to watch him untangle himself from the duvet, feels like he’s watching through the kitchen splashback again.  There’s a soft scuff when Roger gets to his feet, walks slow and sulkily towards the door.  He lingers, studies his bare feet then turns to plead once more with his eyes.  “I’m sorry,” and he goes.  Brian decides it hurts almost as much as it had the first time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got to say, comments absolutely fuel me to write more. I hadn't even started this chapter until I received a lovely comment from someone a few days ago. So by all means, feel free to leaves your thoughts and feedback!!:)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hii, bet you never thought this would get updated. I’m honestly so sorry it’s literally taken like,,,,, 7 months. I have no excuse other than, life ://. Regardless if anyone’s still reading this I hope you enjoy.

A dark waft of some musky sweetness hangs heavy in the air below the high rise of wood damp with smoke. It’s the artificial kind, crisp and delightful to the nose but dizzying to the head. There’s some wrestle, though, where it meets cigarette smoke and becomes mauled and suffocated. The sheer haze of it invades the corners of the bar where there’s orange bulbs, warm in their glow and effective in their illuminance.

There’s a dark slap of wood that’s tacky with varnish and damp with alcohol. A million elbows lean up against it, and a glass of auburn whiskey accompanies almost each of them. Brian’s sleeve is wet from where he’s rested his arm against it and there’s a similar damp across his collarbones where his shirt’s transparent from sweat. It rolls into droplets where he’s had to undo three buttons along his chest and he adds it to the mental count of Why he Needs to Leave. It’s a tally that sits right beside the fact that the heat of human skin is burning Brian along each of his sides where he couldn’t seem to escape the apparently impermeable crowd.

His eyes search through the bar. It’s a thin alleyway that’s half uncovered, counters at each side lined with eighteen-year-olds because Freddie had decided on the uptown club strip. Some bird keeps eyeing him through a small parting that people are shoving themselves through to get further down. He loses her every time someone particularly tall passes through it. He’s sat here for at least ten minutes and he’s trying to compare his previous count with the ever-growing I Should Get Laid tally. Every time he looks over at Roger there’s a new strike.

Roger who’s laughing with Freddie some way down where the crowd is less dense. Brian can barely see from the stool he’s propped on, can just make out their bodies over top of some particularly large hairdos. They look like idiots. Brian can hear them laugh half way down the alley for how loud they are. Roger’s doing some stupid dance move between guffaws and he’s got no grace about himself. Brian frowns at himself. Roger’s still got the attention of at least a dozen guys and twice as many girls.

He looks back to the girl across the way and flattens out his frown. He hasn’t slept with anyone who isn’t Roger in well over six months. She’s got raven hair and a sweet smile, a friend that she seems to be loosely keeping an eye on. Brian respects that.

“Fuck it,” and his insobriety makes him say it a little too loud. It’s overwhelmingly humid as he struggles through the horde before him. There’s several forearms smearing sweat along his sopping shirt. He thinks somewhere of how he looks, sloppy and disorderly, as he drudges on. Someone shoves him for stepping on their shoe and it sends him into a tiny girl. She shoves him back the other way. Brian almost thinks to check if the raven-haired bird has seen his drunken fumbling but finds he doesn’t particularly care.

It’s only about a four metre distance across but it takes at least an eternity to trek it. He feels sluggish and tired wading through the smoke and his boots stick to the floor. He wonders in a spur of pessimism if it’s worth it. He glances down the alley. Roger’s got his head on Freddie’s shoulder, lips at his neck, and Freddie’s giggling. It isn’t that far, Brian decides.

The girl looks a little amused when he finally arrives, but it’s coy. Brian feels exhausted, and he scowls when he notices his heavy breath. He shoves a shoulder at the wall beside her, slumps over in a way he pictures as enticing. “You alright?” She asks, accent thick like she’s from the East End.

“I am now,” and Brian’s muddled head tells him he’s been quite suave. She grins at that and the stone at his shoulder is a little too rough but his lips upturn despite it. “D’you want a drink?”

Her grin’s still in place when she replies, “Nah,” and Brian’s a little bit mesmerised. “I wouldn’t have you walk through that crowd again.” She’s tilted her head down a little to look up through her lashes. Brian thinks she’s the nicest girl he’s ever met.

“It was quite a struggle,” he tells her, hands buried beneath his pockets.

“Oh I could tell,” as she lifts her chin a little, raises her eyebrows in taunt. Brian thinks he should laugh, but finds he doesn’t.

There’s a bloke at his side, back to him and worryingly unsteady on his feet. He keeps falling back against Brian’s arm and it’s pissing him off. The raven-haired girl’s looking at him a little expectantly, seems to be intently ignoring the guy that’s trying to grind on her from behind. Brian shoots him a pointed look and stands a little straighter. It’s more out of obligation than any kind of real jealousy but he seems to get the message. Brian finds he still hasn’t said anything, should probably try a little harder if he doesn’t want to her to leave from boredom.

“So, where are you from?” He settles on, can’t find himself caring for how predictable it is.

There’s a reflection of warm yellow amongst the browns of the girl’s eyes that Brian gets caught on for a moment. He feels a little out of it and then decides he feels very much out of it.

“Bromley,” he hears her say. It’s distant, like it’s an insect that’s buzzing at him from the corner of the room. Brian feels his stomach churn under the slosh of cola and rum. The bloke’s still leaning all over him and he sends an elbow into his side, watches him fall almost arse up. Brian wipes his forearm across his brow and thinks it only adds to the sweat there. He feels dizzy and thinks he’s positively this side of a mess. “Are you alright?” It must show.

“Brilliant.” But it doesn’t sound like him. His gaze takes a beat to catch up with his eyes when he searches the room. The crowd’s less dense, people are filtering out. It’s just as loud, though, deafens him. His hair’s sticking to his forehead when he runs a hand through it to push it back.

He sees Fred first. At the bar, talking to a girl Brian thinks he recognises. His cheeks are ruddy and he looks tired. John’s on the floor near the door, must’ve fallen out of his chair. Some blokes from the stage crew are laughing at him.

It’s fucking hot. Brian’s got to undo another button on his top. It doesn’t alleviate the sweat under his arms or the heat of his face. His jaw clenches for no reason at all. He regrets the rum and thinks of leaving. The girl’s still looking at him. She looks worried and it’s sweet and Brian doesn’t deserve it. He pushes past her, doesn’t spare her a glance and he’s halfway across the room before his fists can clench themselves fully.

Roger’s in the corner. His hair’s muted and damp. He’s got a flush over his cheeks but he’s worn black and it hides his sweat. He looks much more put together than Brian. He looks good. He always does. The man towering over him, hand on his arse, tongue down his throat, does not.

His jacket’s leather when Brian gets his fist in it. He pulls back, hard, and it nearly sends Roger back with him. It’s too hot. Brian’s palms are slippery and his nails dig at them. He’s not particularly steady on his feet.

“Brian!” Roger acts as a soundtrack to the blow Brian lands on the blokes cheek bone. His hands come up to cup the side of his face and he looks somewhat aghast. Brian almost spits at his feet, but finds his mouth dry. Roger’s shoving at his shoulder but he shrugs him off and takes a step closer to the other man. There’s anger shaking his body and Brian isn’t satisfied.

“Brian,” and Roger growls it this time. Low and guttural and suddenly Brian’s not so riled. He looks away from the blood at the man’s cheek and finds Roger and his piercing gaze that’s far more sober than Brian thought he had been. “Get outside.”

Brian’s still very much out of sorts. He glances around with a lowered head and makes out that he’s caused a commotion, people are staring. He goes on sluggish feet and shaky legs.

It must be close to lockout with the piles of people on the street outside. It’s freezing. Brian does his shirt buttons back up. He’d passed John on his way and had ignored his questions. John’s hammered anyway. It contrasts with Brian’s newfound sobriety.

“Brian what the fuck,” Roger’s voice is a little rough, but it’s much less primal. Brian can’t say anything. He wants to tell Roger how hard it’s been, how crap it is to watch him neck on with another bloke. Wants to remind him of the days at his parent’s house when they were in college. When it was only the two of them and he wasn’t troubled by Roger’s escapades. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” weak and a little slurred. It’s genuine.

Roger sighs and he hates the finality in it. Brian’s sat on the paved edge of a garden bed, knees up around his ears. Roger squats down to sit beside him, leaves a gap and doesn’t touch. He keeps his gaze forward as Brian watches him. “I don’t think we should do this anymore,” and Brian needs to throw up. Roger turns his head but doesn’t quite look at him. “The whole sleeping together thing,” and it really is the first time they’ve actually acknowledged it.

It’s everything Brian’s feared for years but he feels only numb. He thinks absently that he might be shaking but tells himself it’s the cold. Brian needs a day and a clear head to mull over his response, prepare an eloquent reasoning as to why they should indeed not stop. As it is, he’s incredibly drunk. “Roger.”

“I’m sorry Brian,” and he gets to his feet. He won’t meet his gaze, lingers for a beat like he might say something more. Brian’s head is empty and for once he doesn’t know what to think. Roger pulls out a cig but doesn’t light it. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and leaves.

Brian listens to the thump of his boots down the pavement and thinks of how tired he feels. He thinks of falling asleep on the edge of a garden bed and never waking up. He hopes John and Freddie haven’t gone. He picks himself up, leaves his heart outside the pub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I know I’m awful. I promise the next chapter won’t take so long. Comments and kudos always appreciated ❤️

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Feel free to point out any mistakes!


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